


Trust Me (Or, An Embarrassing Ritual with Unexpected Side-effects)

by who_la_hoop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: snarry_holidays, EWE, M/M, bottom!Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-15
Updated: 2007-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_la_hoop/pseuds/who_la_hoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape is tired of everything. So tired, in fact, that he is considering extinguishing his own life – it is, he suspects, the only way he'll ever get some rest. But when he discovers that Harry Potter is joining the staff of Hogwarts, he realises that his task – to prevent Potter from causing further mayhem and destruction – is not yet done, and so he decides to postpone his eternal sleep for a little while longer . . . with 'interesting' results!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me (Or, An Embarrassing Ritual with Unexpected Side-effects)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themadscriptor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=themadscriptor).



> Written for Snarry_Holidays.

_“We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”_ – e e cummings

* * *

Professor Severus Snape stirred the lethal potion with the same attention to detail that had marked his long tenure as potions master at Hogwarts, even though said tenure was now in doubt. He decanted the finished potion without a drop spilt, stoppered it securely, and placed it in a rack on his desk. He then sat primly on his chair, picked up his quill and, with intense care and deliberation, drew up two columns. To the left: reasons for. To the right: reasons against. Severus Snape had never been sloppy, and even though others might think it a rather bizarre method of deciding such an important matter, he was determined to carry it out with the same methodical care and cold calculation that was his way. It would not do to leave loose ends, and while Snape was more or less decided on his course of action, he despised unfinished business. Better to suffer than to not do his duty. Snape knew that he was cold, he was cruel and he was unlovable. But by damn he was loyal, and he could not – would not – complete this matter if his conscience told him otherwise.

For, if the truth be told, Severus Snape, potions master extraordinaire, ex-death eater, known variously as unpleasant, greasy-haired, harsh, untrustworthy despite everything, murderer, bastard, was deciding whether – having discharged his duty to Albus Dumbledore – he could finally allow himself some peace. Whether or not to drink the rather fine, speedy and painless method of oblivion that rested innocently on the desk in front of him. In short, whether or not to die by his own hand.

Self-termination was not a thought that had sprung up suddenly, after the conclusion of the war and the months that followed. Rather, it had been a thought that Snape had held deep within his breast, cherishing it as a dear friend, for what seemed like countless years. Snape had held onto his life with grim desperation while it was needed, the pain of continuing to be Voldemort’s servant a just penance for his treatment of his best – and only – friend Lilly, and for his irredeemable mistake in choosing Voldemort as his master. But now, with his duty to Dumbledore – and to Harry Potter – surely discharged, Snape had decided that it was time to bring his closely guarded desire to the light, examine it and – if need be – carry it out.

Snape picked up the quill and began to write. What reasons were there for him to painlessly slip away? He wondered, for a while, if he’d ever be able to stop writing. He was an ugly, middle-aged man with no family and no friends. No-one would miss him when he was gone. On the contrary, many would rejoice in his departure. He was an unwelcome reminder to them of Voldemort, and of the loved ones they’d lost. He would never be a welcome guest in anyone’s home, or anyone’s heart. The very thought was laughable.

He was a good potions master, but there were others just as capable. His skills in potion creation lay towards the darker arts, and he felt no great desire to bequeath a host of new and unusual ways to inflict pain on the next generation. It might be a slight inconvenience for Headmistress McGonagal to find a new master, but there were still some weeks until term began again. It was certainly not an insurmountable problem.

His affairs were all in order. He had no great store of personal possessions, and no wealth to speak of. He had made a short will, leaving what pitiful items he had to various charities. There was no issue there.

Emotionally, he was more than ready for the eternal sleep. Although in sound physical shape, Snape was more than aware of his own emotional inadequacies. While being feared and despised had suited his role as a spy, now there was nothing to struggle against there was equally nothing to live for. He was not an overemotional fool to think this way; he knew he was a cold, hard man without comfort and with nowhere to find it, and no-one to seek it from. Enough was enough.

Snape regarded the right hand side of the page impassively, and put his quill away. There was nothing to write.

* * *

Despite it all, Snape found the act of extinguishing his own life to be more of a struggle than he’d anticipated. He sat back and glared at the potion. It irked him that his life had been, in many ways, so pointless. And although he disdained to admit it, he did not like to think of the legacy he would leave. History would think badly of him; he had forever tarnished the family name of Snape.

So when the owl arrived at his window, tapping insistently until he opened it up and detached the scroll from the bird’s leg, he was secretly rather pleased. Perhaps this missive would give him a meaningful reason to live? He opened it, and as he read, his jaw dropped. It was a scroll from Professor McGonagal, informing him that the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor would be filled this term by Harry Potter, with Hermione Granger taking up a new role as assistant librarian. Snape gaped for a time, as he re-read the letter. It ended with a personal plea from McGonagal that he, Snape, should help Potter fit into his new role, and that – although young – Potter was the best choice, and should not be hindered by past grudges.

Past grudges! Hah! The old woman had no idea.

Snape picked up the death-giving potion and poured it down the sink. It would lose its potency in a few days, he reasoned. He could just as easily make it up afresh. It seemed that fate had handed him a tiresome and irritating reason to postpone his timely demise, but postpone it he would. In the right hand column of his parchment he wrote, in neat but cramped script:

“Prevent Harry Potter from disgracing Hogwarts, in this new and ridiculous scheme he’s blundering headlong into. Be there to clean up the inevitable mess when the idiot child realises he can’t cope and/or curses his students, the teachers, or – worst case scenario – the entire castle.”

Professor Snape put down his quill and smiled grimly. It was reason enough to stay alive for. For now, at least.

* * *

After the tedious and formulaic opening ceremony, where Snape had done his best to frighten as many of the incoming first years as possible (a task even more ridiculously easy now, thanks to his reputation as a death-eater and murderer), Snape broke tradition and headed for the staff room rather than his dungeon laboratory. Despite himself, he was ridiculously intrigued by Potter. He had expected him to be chatty, arrogant and above all oblivious to the mixed feelings with which the appointment of one so young and inexperienced to a position of responsibility would doubtless raise in any staff member who had a brain. Namely, himself. But Potter had been quiet, pale and unusually polite, even deigning to call Snape “Professor”.

It was, Snape thought crossly, entirely unnerving. He wondered what devious thing Potter was up to this time, and what form of cruel and unusual punishment the boy – the man – was devising to torment him. So he’d decided as he stared at Potter, a man who usually wielded a spoon with devastating efficiency but was now simply picking at (and even he, Snape had to admit it), a rather marvellous apple pie and custard concoction, that he’d take the initiative when the meal was over.

“What are you up to, Potter?” he said with a sneer, looming over Potter. Potter was sitting in an armchair, set slightly apart from the rest of the staff. Granger was no-where to be seen.

Potter frowned, and Snape wondered irritatedly if the man had ever had more than a brief and transitory fling with a hairbrush or other instrument of tidying. “What do you mean, Snape?”

“Professor Snape,” Snape said acidly.

Potter flushed slightly, and looked annoyed. “And that’s Professor Potter,” he said, staring insolently at Snape.

“You may have a position at Hogwarts for now…” Snape said menacingly, cursing himself inwardly. Could he never begin a conversation without it turning into a battle of words, which he would doubtless win? Victory already tasted sour and unpleasant on his tongue. “But-“

“What do you mean by that?” Harry interrupted, his face flushing. Then, to Snape’s surprise, Potter looked bashful. “Look, I know I’m too young for the job. I told Minerva I was too young. But she insisted.” His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. “This is a nightmare.”

Snape frowned, but battled manfully onwards with his lecture. “18 is a ridiculous age to begin to teach. You are barely more than a child yourself. You haven’t even got your NEWTS.”

Potter looked surprised. “Yes I have. What do you think I’ve been doing for the past year? Sitting around feeling sorry for myself?”

That was exactly what Snape had thought, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it. Not when that was rather close to what he, Snape, had been doing for the past months. Certainly not. “I am simply concerned that you have taken on too much, and you will come to regret taking on this appointment.”

Harry looked annoyed. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” He half-stood, and Snape wondered if he’d try to hex him. But Potter was full of surprises today. He sighed, and sat back down again. “I’ll be fine,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. “And if I’m not, I’m sure you’ll weigh in with a few pointers.”

Snape stared. Was that sarcasm? Had Potter begun to learn the finer points of verbal repartee? “I think not,” he said stiffly.

Potter stared back, his expression unreadable. “I’d hoped that we could be-“ He trailed off. “Friends?”

Snape’s stomach lurched. “Friends?” he said, with an edge of venom to his tone that was more than a little forced.

Potter laughed, a little bitterly. “Yeah, stupid thought, I know.” He got up, and strode past Snape. “I spot Hermione. See you around.”

“Inevitably,” Snape said to Potter’s back, aware that his retort wasn’t exactly the height of cutting wit for which he usually strived. He sighed and looked around. No-one caught his eye, or looked even slightly inclined to speak to him, so he stalked back to the dungeons. He should have known that visiting the staff room would be a useless waste of time.

* * *

Back at his lab, Snape did the thing that he was best at – brooding. It was unthinkable that he should have let the spawn of James Potter rile him up, and for no good reason. Friends! The very idea was ridiculous. Potter certainly knew it was ridiculous. There was too much bad blood between them for such a thing to be possible, even if Potter did really desire it – a fact which he, Severus Snape, doubted very sincerely.

Irresistibly, Snape’s mind went back to the moment in that disgusting, dirty old shack when he’d been bitten by Nagini and quite expected to die. As the pain overwhelmed him, he’d given Potter some choice memories. He’d never expected to survive, and so it hadn’t mattered that he’d opened himself up, made himself unforgivably vulnerable. All that had seemed important at that moment had been proving to Harry that for the past torturous, horrendous years, keeping him alive had been his main aim. That he wasn’t the terrible traitor that Harry no doubt thought him. That killing Dumbledore had been an act of mercy. That there was no pain like this, feeling that Dumbledore had betrayed him into saving Harry all these years, only for him to be slaughtered by Voldemort.

Snape had never expected to survive, so when he woke up in St Mungo’s, his memories his own again, it was rather a shock. More so when he discovered that, rather than being sentenced to life in Azkaban, he was (thanks to the vocal protests and evidence of Harry Potter), to be awarded an Order of Merlin, first class. Even more irritating than being rewarded, thanks to Potter, was the knowledge that everyone thought Potter insane – and that he was still as much disliked and distrusted as ever before. It was a poor sort of reward, and Snape wished very thoroughly that Potter had simply left him to die. For it was, undoubtedly, Potter’s fault that he was still alive.

But, most of all, what irked Snape were two things. First, that he couldn’t recall exactly what memories he’d gifted to Potter. As he’d woken up with all memories intact, it was impossible for him to judge what Potter had seen. It was infuriating. But second, and more importantly, Potter had refused to see him. Declined to answer any of his owls. Had managed to miss every single one of Snape’s carefully orchestrated “coincidental” meetings. He’d even stooped to asking for Granger’s help, only to be met with a non-committal response: “Harry’s not up to visitors. I’ll let him know you were asking after him.” Harry seemed up for visitors all right when Snape read the Daily Prophet from cover to cover each day, searching for details of Potter’s doings. In and out of nightclubs, women all over him, his face covered with lipstick stains. Except. Except Potter didn’t look too happy in these pictures. His face blank and dazed, his hair sticking up at increasingly wild angles. And then he simply vanished from the papers. Of course, he was still mentioned with increasingly hysterical headlines, but no pictures. No information about his whereabouts. Hermione’s owl replied to Snape’s with a terse “he’s fine. Leave him alone”.

There was nothing Snape hated more than to be ignorant of the true state of affairs. Except, perhaps, to be ignored. Which was why he was now more than suspicious of Potter’s sudden desire to be friends. They could not, could never be friends. Snape knew he was not a forgiving man, and Potter’s callous dismissal of Snape’s memories was more than he could bear. It was an insult of the highest order.

Snape brooded a bit more.

  
* * *

Nevertheless, Snape had to admit that Potter’s presence certainly added a touch of humour to Hogwarts that had been so missing during Voldemort’s rise to power. Even if it were only he, Snape, who was laughing. He took pains to ensure he passed Potter’s classroom at regular intervals. One could never be sure when one’s expert skills at discipline would be needed. Just because he hadn’t heard that Potter was struggling, didn’t mean that Potter wasn’t.

About a week into Potter’s tenure, Snape was striding past Potter’s classroom, when he decided one a whim to pause. The noise emanating from the classroom was ear-splitting. Snape smiled grimly, and flung open the door. The scene beyond was one of chaos. Third years climbed on desks, chairs lay carelessly discarded across the floor, paper fluttered throughout the room. A student shot out of the classroom, tears running down her face, and collided heavily with him.

“O-oh, Professor Snape,” she wailed. “I think I’ve killed Professor Potter!”

Snape raised an eyebrow, and strode into the classroom. Immediately there was silence. He knelt over the prone figure of Potter and checked his pulse. “Fetch Madame Pomfrey,” he snapped at the nearest girl, and turned back to Potter. He was alive, but his heart was beating erratically. “What did you do?” he snarled at the crying girl, who was wringing her hands and weeping more copiously.

“He was demonstrating a duel,” another girl said sharply, glaring at Snape and putting her arm around the snotty child. “Emma here hadn’t even raised her wand at Professor Potter, when he just collapsed.”

Snape bit back a harsh remark as he deftly ran his wand over Potter, searching for a magical cause for his condition. He could find none, which worried him more than he cared to admit. He picked Potter up, feeling ridiculously cross at how light the man was, and carried him to the sick bay. It was only later that it occurred to him that levitation would have been a more suitable mode of transportation. But as Potter hadn’t been awake, he wouldn’t know that Snape had carried him in his arms to find him medical attention. That would be too humiliating to bear.

* * *

It was entirely unexpected when Potter turned up at the dungeons one evening. Snape had been doing a modicum of brooding in his favourite armchair, when there was a knock at the door.

“What?” he snapped, opening the door at speed and glaring down at what he expected to be a Slytherin student with some inane problem that had nothing to do with him.

Instead, there was Potter. He looked a bit surprised.

“Um,” Potter said.

Snape raised an eyebrow and did his best to look menacing. He wondered if Madame Pomfrey had told Potter that he’d been the one who had carried him to the hospital wing. He’d made her swear not to say anything, but in his experience you could never trust kindly women. They blabbed, and thought they were doing you a favour.

“Yes, Potter?”

“Can I come in?” Potter said, unexpectedly. He looked a little like a puppy expecting to be kicked.

Snape sighed. “I fail to see the necessity of it.”

Potter shrugged. “It won’t take long.”

“Fine.” Snape stepped back from the door and turned his back on Potter. “Shut the door behind you.”

He walked quickly into his living room, not caring if he appeared rude. He couldn’t remember the last time a colleague had visited his rooms, and it was oddly exposing. Almost as if Potter were seeing him naked. He grimaced, and looked around quickly, to see if anything was out of place. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared. It was only Potter, after all. But somehow it seemed important that Potter didn’t mock Snape’s meagre possessions.

Snape poked at the fire, and then turned around. Potter was standing in the middle of the room, looking nervous.

“Sit,” Snape said tersely, indicating his own favourite chair. “Well?”

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” Potter said, with a faint smile on his face.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Would a cup of warm milk be appropriate? Or perhaps a beaker of orange squash.”

Potter flushed and looked annoyed. “Firewhiskey on the rocks would be good. I’m 18, not eight. It’s perfectly legal.”

Snape snorted, but poured them both a generous measure. The boy wasn’t to know that the stuff was so expensive that he could only afford one bottle every couple of months.

“To friendship,” Potter said quickly, and took a quick swig before Snape could react.

Snape glared at his glass. It would be churlish not to drink. He took a ginger sip, and felt himself relax a little as the warm glow of the alcohol washed over him. When he looked up again, the idiot Gryffindor was smiling at him.

“Kindly state your business, Potter,” Snape said, feeling irritated. “Even if you feel you can spend the evening lounging about, I have work that must be done.”

Potter went bright red, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then collapsed.

It was a moment before Snape realised what had happened. He rushed over to Potter, and felt his pulse. It was weak, but still steady. He picked him up, feeling his back twinge in protest, and placed him gently on the couch. Madame Pomfrey had said that Potter’s last turn had been a panic attack. Snape scowled at him, and wondered what would be the best thing to do. He felt an overwhelming urge to hold Potter’s hand. Instead, he wet a flannel and dabbed at Potter’s brow. The boy was absurdly hot. It was the least he could do.

After a few minutes, Potter’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked more than confused. “What- Where? Is that you, Snape?”

“You surmise correctly, Mr Potter,” Snape said dryly. “Full marks. Five points to Gryffindor for your rapier quick mental processes. Now, perhaps, Mr Potter, you could tell me why you keep fainting? I ask merely because it is inconvenient to me that every time I encounter you, you keel over and act as if you were dead. It is beginning to become annoying.”

Potter flushed, and didn’t say anything.

“Shall I fetch Miss Granger to assist you back to your rooms?” Snape asked, when no answer was forthcoming.

“I. No.” Potter shook his head. “I don’t want to worry her. Could I just sit here for a moment?”

Snape grit his teeth. “Mr Potter,” he said, trying to keep his temper. “Would it be too much to ask that you come to the point? Why did you come to my rooms, and subject me to this display?”

Potter looked annoyed. “I didn’t mean to collapse.”

“You fainted, Mr Potter.”

“I did not! Girls faint. I lost consciousness in a manly fashion,” Potter said, with a grin.

Snape tapped his foot.

“Fine. I, er.” Potter went beetroot red, and swayed slightly.

Snape gripped him firmly by the arm and sat next to him on the sofa. “Once is quite enough for one evening, Mr Potter.”

Potter leaned into him slightly. Snape suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and wasn’t entirely sure why. Potter was warm and solid, and the pressure of his side against his own was not unpleasant.

“I was,” Potter cleared his throat. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Snape. Why is everything with you so difficult? I wanted to apologise for not answering your letters. I… I wasn’t myself for quite a while last year. It wasn’t right to treat you that way, not after what I knew. I was an arse. A big one. A humungous one. And. And. And I hope you can forgive me and we can be friends.” The last words came out in a rush, and Potter went rigid against Snape for a moment. Then he sagged. “God. I don’t know why that felt so difficult,” he muttered. Then, after a while, when Snape sat in shocked silence, “It’s your turn to speak, you know.”

Snape continued to say nothing. He wasn’t entirely certain if he could speak. A strange and contradictory range of emotions churned in his gut. He wanted to tell Potter, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off and die, but he also wanted to clasp the idiot to him and hug him. He was used to scorn, or terror, or even a kind of pity that made his jaw clench. He was not used to this. This seemed almost impossible to respond to, although he wanted to accept Potter’s offer so badly that he felt almost ill.

Potter half turned to him, red faced and looking offended. “Look, Snape, that wasn’t easy, you bastard,” he said indignantly. “I’ve been having panic attacks all over the place thinking about doing it. I even collapsed in class last week. My student Emma thought I’d killed her! The least you could do is either accept my apology, or spit in my face and hex me into next week.”

Snape was unable to speak. With Potter pressed up against him, the room felt too small and too hot. He wondered if he were finally going insane. Next thing he’d be cackling and cursing small animals. It had happened to better, greater wizards than him, so why had he been so certain that he, of all people, would survive the war mentally intact?

“Can I – can I get you another glass of whiskey, Snape?” Potter said, who seemed to have caught on to the fact that Snape was having a nervous breakdown.

He managed to nod, and felt mildly relieved that at least he had control of his limbs.

Potter poured him a large measure and fed it to him as if he were a child, holding his chin and tilting it back. A trickle of the liquid ran down his neck, and dripped onto his robe.

“Potter?” Snape managed to say weakly.

Potter looked pitifully eager. “Yes, Professor?”

Snape’s gut twisted. “Get out.”

Potter’s face clouded over, and he made an obvious attempt to look as if he didn’t care. “Fine,” he said, sounding pained and odd. “Fine.” He staggered up and Snape realised, too late, that Potter’d just collapsed and probably shouldn’t be attempting to go anywhere.

“Potter,” he said.

“Fuck off, Snape,” Potter said, and stumbled to the door, slamming it on the way out.

For the next few hours Snape sat on his chair and stared blankly into space. When he finally got up, he realised he was shaking, and his eyes were wet with tears. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d cried.

* * *

Snape told himself that he’d keep away from Potter after the dreadful scene he’d caused. If he couldn’t even manage to accept the man’s apology gracefully, then there was no reason why he should want to subject himself to further contact with the tousle-haired moron. But in the days that followed, even he – master of denial and emotional malfunction – had to admit to himself that he had something of a problem. He couldn’t manage to keep away from Potter.

Every time he left the dungeons his feet compelled him to walk past Potter’s classroom, or dally near Potter’s quarters. He even found himself visiting the staff-room on a regular basis, scanning the room impatiently. If he didn’t see Potter there, he left. If he did see Potter there, he left. And now even the other teachers had noticed that there was what they called an “atmosphere” between them. All of them, he noticed with something that felt almost like pain, took Potter’s side. He was used to feeling like a pariah, and Merlin knows he deserved it, but he wasn’t used to this odd feeling of guilt that he now carried around with him. But it was too late for him to change. He hadn’t managed to acquire the skills to be a friend, and Potter had offered his apology too late.

Snape was increasingly aware that, surrounded by staff and students, he felt horrendously lonely. By damn he missed Dumbledore, with a fierce pain that continued to surprise him. If only he’d accepted Potter’s apology. But it was too late, Snape reminded himself on an hourly basis, much too late. The man would never offer it again, and Snape knew he could not proffer one himself. It was a lost cause, and best forgotten.

* * *

Snape was therefore more than shocked when Potter sat next to him one night, a couple of weeks after their argument, at dinner in the Great Hall. At first, Potter ignored Snape’s presence entirely, but Snape knew it could not be accidental that Potter had sat in that particular spot. There were plenty of other seats free. Perhaps Potter simply meant to ignore him for the entire evening, and show him how utterly unaffected he was by Snape’s presence. Well, Snape thought bitterly, two can play at that game. And if anyone was going to win at cold war, it would be him. He had certainly had ample practise.

“I still want to, if you’ve changed your mind,” Potter said airily, not turning to look at Snape.

Snape said nothing, but clasped his hands into fists under the table, his fingernails biting half moons into his palms.

“Be friends, you know,” Potter continued off-handedly. “We could go for drinks sometime. Tonight. If you like.”

Snape forced down the unpleasant retort that threatened to spill out and ruin his unexpected second chance. “That would be acceptable,” he ground out, between clenched teeth.

Potter jumped and looked surprised. He turned to look at Snape. “Really? You mean it? Tonight?”

Snape managed to nod, even though the muscles in his neck had seized up. His entire body felt like a clenched fist. “I… I regret my conduct the previous evening,” he forced out. “I was ungracious and ill mannered.”

“Oh,” Potter said, looking uncomfortable. “That’s OK.” He shook his head. “Merlin,” he grinned, “I never thought I’d hear you say sorry to me.”

“Indeed,” Snape said, inclining his head. “The likelihood has always seemed remote. Let us pretend it never occurred. If you desire, I can take points from Gryffindor for your presumption in imagining that such an event took place?”

Potter grinned. “Thanks, but no.” He looked at his watch. “Damn, if we’re going out later I really need to get my fourth year papers marked.” He jumped up, and ran a hand through his hair, which sprang up at odd angles. “Eight? Outside the entrance hall? Hogsmeade OK?”

Snape snorted. “Hogsmeade? Be still my beating heart. Eight is fine, but I shall choose the location, Potter, if Hogsmeade is your idea of a good time.”

Potter grinned. “Right you are.”

Snape was still looking open mouthed after him, when dessert arrived. He’d eaten a full bowl of jelly before he even realised it. Snape thought, rather gloomily, that there was something seriously wrong with him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

At five to eight, Snape was pacing his rooms, wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d (it made him grind his teeth just to think of it) made an effort. His hair was freshly washed, and he was wearing his best robes. He was surely setting himself up for a terrible humiliation. There was no doubt in his mind that Potter had some nefarious purpose behind this invitation, and one that did not bode well for him, Snape. He wondered, rather grimly, if he should use Legilimency on the boy. But he had sworn, ever since Potter had invaded his memories so carelessly all those months ago, that he would never do such a thing unless his life depended upon it. It had taken Potter’s complete lack of respect for his privacy to make him realise how unpleasant such an invasion could be. Voldemort was dead, damn it, and he need be a spy no longer. He could ask Potter, straight out, what his intentions were if need be, rather than sneaking about like some kind of slippery weasel.

Snape raised his chin, pushed his curtain of dark hair away from his face and strode out of his rooms towards the entrance hall, and out into the cold night air.

Potter was waiting, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He smiled when he saw Snape, and Snape felt a strange sensation bubble through him. No-one smiled when they saw him. No-one liked him. Why was Potter putting on this act?

“So where we going?” Potter said, as he detached himself from the wall. “If it’s not somewhere amazing, I’ll be severely disappointed.”

Snape amazed himself by laughing. “Potter, you would not recognise style if it stared you in the face and threatened to chew your nose off,” he said. They walked together in silence for a few minutes. Then he offered his arm to Potter.

Potter stared at it.

Snape glared at him. “What? I’d prefer it if you didn’t arrive at our destination splinched, although I often wonder if you left your brain behind in some insalubrious location many years ago. You cannot Apparate somewhere, Potter, if you do not know where you are going.”

“OK, OK,” Potter said, sounding annoyed. “Fine.” He took Snape’s arm gingerly. “You look nice tonight, by the way,” Snape thought he heard him say, but by that point he’d already whipped them both round into that magic space between destinations.

They arrived clumsily, Snape stumbling and Potter leaning heavily against him so that they both almost fell in a heap.

“Oaf,” Snape said, feeling rather flustered. Had Potter really complimented his appearance? It seemed unlikely, but then this whole evening was turning out to be a bizarre deviation from normality.

“Greasy bastard,” Potter replied, grinning, and ruffled Snape’s hair.

Snape stood very still.

Potter blushed, and stammered a little. “Er, sorry. I didn’t mean to.” If Snape had been in the mood to be amused he would have been, but Potter’s action had set his pulse racing. He didn’t think it was anger he was feeling, although it was hard to be sure. No-one had touched him playfully for such a long time, that he’d almost forgotten what it was like. He grimaced. Potter was no doubt used to such horse-play with his bevy of friends. He had no idea what such a gentle touch could do to a man like himself. Snape wondered what to say next. Potter was no doubt already regretting that he’d invited such an odd companion for drinks.

Potter’s blush deepened. “Er, should we, er, a table?”

Snape managed to regain some of his composure in the face of Potter’s utter incoherence. “Yes, a table is an excellent suggestion. I have reserved one in the garden. Although, if it is too cold for you, I have no doubt we could sit inside?” His tone suggested that Potter would be a moron to choose inside. Snape winced slightly. He hadn’t intended to sound so unpleasant.

Potter, however, looked relieved. “Outside sounds great. Lead on.”

* * *

As soon as he opened the door, Snape knew he’d made a terrible mistake. The garden was lit by hundreds of tiny candles, the enchanted roses blooming into the darkness. The whole place smelt of perfume. It was beautiful, and beautifully romantic. The sky was filled with a million trillion stars.

Potter gave an audible gasp, and Snape held his breath.

“How did I not know about this place?” Potter said, sounding awestruck. “It’s brilliant.”

Snape guided him to a table, and motioned towards a waiter, ordering drinks.

Potter’s brow furrowed. “I’ll pay,” he said quickly.

Snape tensed. “I may not be wealthy, but I think I can afford to pay for a few drinks,” he said, feeling offended.

Potter scowled. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I invited you, so I’ll pay.”

Snape glared back. “Don’t test my patience, Potter.”

Potter half-rose, then sat back down, looking mutinous. “Fine. But I’m buying the next round.”

As they waited for the waiter to bring over their drinks, Snape looked around uncomfortably. There was no doubt that it was a beautiful location. A beautiful location to bring a lover. Potter, no doubt, felt awkward being there in his presence. He was, no doubt, already thinking about when he could come here next, unencumbered by his unpleasant guest.

Potter nudged him, and Snape started.

“Sorry,” Potter said, not sounding very apologetic. “You looked miles away. Somewhere not so nice. I’m always grateful when Hermione and Ron give me a good shove to bring me back to the present.”

Snape looked at Potter thoughtfully. The young man had more emotional intelligence than Snape had given him credit for, despite the appalling way he expressed himself. “Thank you,” he said. The words sounded rusty in his mouth.

Potter grinned at him. “You’re welcome.”

And then, to Snape’s surprise, Potter initiated an entirely easy conversation about Snape’s teaching methods, which he then steered into the avenues of the latest developments in the field of potions. It was only much later, when he was about to fall asleep after a surprisingly pleasant night, having drunk just a little too much wine for a Wednesday evening, that Snape realised that Potter had evidently read up on his subject. Which meant that he’d been nervous about the evening going smoothly. And for some reason, this made Snape’s heart beat a little faster.

It was some time before Snape unwound enough to fall asleep.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, and months, to no one’s surprise more than Snape’s, his outings with Potter turned into a regular event. First once a week, then twice. Potter always nudging at the edges of Snape’s comfort zone, turning Snape’s marking sessions into something more sociable, or disturbing him during his evening potions experiments.

Snape was surprised to learn that Potter, rather than being the brave but rather useless youth that he’d always thought him to be, could be methodical and patient when he chose. He found to his amazement that, when he told Potter about a new potions breakthrough or expressed a dilemma about something that was borderline black arts, Potter would sometimes go away and research the subject. They could discuss things. Argue even.

At first, Snape found it difficult to have his opinion challenged by Potter. It was hard to disentangle Potter from Snape’s memories of him as an insolent, ungrateful schoolchild for long enough to actually listen to him, let alone give his opinions any respect. But however rude he was, Potter always came back. Sometimes to shout at Snape some more, it was true, but it seemed sometimes as if there was an unspoken agreement between them. I know you’re a bastard, Potter’s grin sometimes seemed to say to him, but better the bastard you know.

He often wondered why Potter chose to spend his time with him, when there were so many more congenial companions out there. But after a while, Snape chose to suppress these thoughts. He’d enjoy Potter’s company while it lasted. It couldn’t last long.

* * *

Then one night, a fairly innocuous conversation about transfiguration took a step into a dark and painful alleyway. They were out at a small Muggle pub where they often visited to drink dark, strong ale and indulge in meaningful but light-hearted debate about the limits of magic.  
Potter, who had recently become Harry in Snape’s mind, if not in actual conversation, had had a few glasses too many, and Snape had not seen fit to stop him. Harry’s thoughts had evidently turned from frivolous to horrific, and Snape had no idea how to turn back the tide of such bad memories – many of which he knew, to his own shame, he had caused.

“I could change it, you know,” Harry said suddenly, with a strained laugh. His eyes were bright and wild.

Snape wondered why he suddenly felt completely terrified. He licked his lips. “What do you mean by that, Potter?” he asked, all too aware that his voice sounded hoarse rather than imbued with the sarcastic tone he aimed for as a general rule.

“The mark.”

Snape tried hard not to flinch. “I think not.”

He had tried endlessly since the war to shift it, but nothing worked. It seemed simply a tattoo, but yet it would not change, no matter what magic of dubious legality he tried on it. Snape had become resigned to being scarred with a reminder of his worst choice in life – and all the horror that had followed – indelibly. Forever. He supposed it was all that he deserved.

Harry laughed again, and his eyes glistened with something Snape suspected were unshed tears. “I could,” Harry said distantly. “I know I could. I could just place my fingers on it, and feel it change into something new.” His voice became hypnotic, seductive even. “No longer a reminder of evil, but the sign of a new beginning. I could mark you as belonging to the light, as a good man.” Harry smiled a strange, bright smile. “Would you like that?”

Snape wet his lips. His hands felt clammy, and he wondered what the right answer was. What Potter would do to him if he got it wrong. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so terrified of the boy – no, the grown man – in front of him. “Yes,” he said finally, and panted slightly, feeling out of breath and out of control.

Harry looked at him with his bright green eyes – the eyes of Lilly Potter, the only friend that Severus had ever had. The gaze burned into him. “And you’d come when I called?” Harry muttered, more to himself than to Snape, it seemed. “No pain, just need and friendship. A network of friends, linked by love. Just call me and I’ll be there.” Harry winced. “Does that sound good?” he whispered.

Harry’s voice was so low that Snape had to lean to hear him. He felt hot and dizzy, and he almost wondered if Harry were weaving a spell – except of course he of all people would know if that were the case. It wasn’t. And how that terrified him. “Yes,” Snape said, and then blinked slightly, wrong-footed. He wondered where his sense had gone, and what exactly he’d just agreed to.

Harry’s lips were parted and his cheeks were flushed. He reached out with one hand and gently pulled Snape’s left arm towards him, rolling up the sleeve to expose the dark mark, running a gentle finger over it. Snape shivered under the touch and was lost, any objections melting away under the ministrations of those deft fingers.

Then Harry dropped his arm heavily, snapped upright and glared at Snape. “That’s why I won’t do it,” he practically yelled. “I can’t be who you want me to be, Severus. I won’t be the next dark lord, but for the good. I refuse to be some meddler who controls you at every turn, even if you do trust me to make the right decisions.” He bit his lip and trembled all over. “I want a house. A cosy one where I feel comfortable. A job where I can do well because I’m good at it, not because I’m Harry-fucking-Potter.” He went red, and even his voice trembled. “And I want a partner who loves me despite of who I am, and what I’ve done. Who is my equal, and my better. But never – never – one who is so ashamed of who he is, he’ll sell his soul into servitude once more. Even if it is only to me, and in the name of good. I will never- I refuse to be like-” A half sob. “I won’t do it. Please don’t ask me.”

Harry got up jerkily, and Snape watched him stand and turn towards the door of the pub in a kind of mental daze. His heart was pounding strangely, and speaking – even moving a single facial muscle – seemed impossible.

“Goodnight, Severus,” Harry said, and left the room. The quiet snick of the pub’s front door closing behind him a kind of death, Snape thought hazily. But still, he could not move.

* * *

In the hours that followed Snape discovered, to his own complex horror, that there was no pain quite like this – a pain completely, entirely of his own making. He would have submitted quite willingly to Crucio, if only it would ease the terrible sharpness of his hurt. It was reminiscent, in a way, of that awful time he’d called Lilly a Mudblood and lost her friendship forever. Only this cut deeper, slicing so far into him that he wondered if perhaps his very soul were bleeding.

At first he attempted to deny the import of Harry’s accusations. It was not him to whom Harry referred. Or perhaps Harry had misspoken, and said ‘partner’ where he’d simply meant ‘friend’. But he had spent too many years finely honing his ability to dissect his feelings, thus enabling him to effectively suppress them, to develop a capacity for self-delusion now. Potter had wanted him. And now he did not.

Snape’s brain wearily tried a different tack. At first it seemed an entirely reasonable one. Since when had he desired men? Snape had always considered – if, indeed, he considered it at all – the act of sexual congress to be an awkward, messy thing. Whilst teenage hormones, with a liberal application of Firewhisky, had propelled him into beds – and sometimes bushes – with a moderately respectable number of inebriated females, his abiding memories of this brief period were of the faces of the aforementioned women when they woke and realised exactly whom they’d been intimate with. It had been twenty years, and he still thought in vague terms of self-disgust when he thought of carnal relations. He’d certainly never experimented with men, and never been tempted to do so. Surely, with a man, Snape thought uncomfortably, there would be pain?

Except. Except that in the past few months, growing closer to Harry, his near dormant libido had sparked up at the strangest things. Harry rolling up his shirt-sleeves. Laughing, as he allowed a first-year to outfly him. The sight of him, forehead screwed up, as he tackled a pile of almost certainly incomprehensible second year essays, an ink stain on his cheek. It was a strange, uncomfortable sort of arousal – more mental than physical, on the whole (although once Potter had run the feather of his quill idly over his lips and Snape had been more than grateful for his voluminous robes) – but it was arousal none the less. So no, Snape thought wearily, he wasn’t particularly attracted to men – or women, really – as a general rule. Just, it seemed, to Harry.

The conclusion was inescapable. He, Severus Snape, had just been offered the only thing he’d ever really wanted – the respect and love of someone to whom he could amply return the feelings – and in the very act of accepting, he’d thrown it all away. He couldn’t even blame Harry for being so devious. It was patently clear that the young man hadn’t even known what he was doing – as usual – and only realised what he wanted when he, Severus, had thrown his chance away.

Snape cursed himself. He truly was an idiot, and one of the highest order. But then he’d always been a fool, ever since that fateful day he’d chosen Voldemort as his master. It was clear that nothing had changed. He was ever doomed to act without thinking when it really mattered – even though he always thought, was always rational, cold and calculating. And so was equally doomed to useless regret, and years of penance to make up for the unforgivable.

Snape clenched his jaw and sat up straight. Not this time. This time he wasn’t in the thrall of an insane madman, or being manipulated by a meddlesome, loving old man. This was Harry, and Harry had no hidden agenda to beat Severus with until he bled. He was, it seemed, simply a man who wished to be cherished for himself, not for what he’d done or what he could do. A man, in fact, very much like Severus himself, who was trapped in the role he’d created for himself of evil, unlovable, untrustworthy Professor Snape.

And suddenly, Snape knew exactly what he could do to make it up to the man he had wronged, even though the very thought of it sent him into spasms of humiliated horror. He grit his teeth and rose to consult a book, reading the relevant passages with mounting dread. It was perfect – and at the same time, for a man as private and restrained as himself, it was a perfect torment. Snape sighed, and pulled out quill, parchment and ink. There was planning to be done, and there was no time like the present.

* * *

Snape took a deep breath, but that didn’t help. He almost wished, for a moment, that he wasn’t the sort of man who always followed through; once he’d decided on a course of action, nothing could sway him from his course, no matter the consequences. Even if it were, as this would surely be, grand humiliation and perhaps the end of his career. As he contemplated what he was about to do, even he quailed a little. But he had decided. It was time for the grand gesture. And although he, Severus Snape, had been many things, he had never been a coward. He would do what he must do.

Snape entered the great hall, which was teeming with students and staff. He tried not to react as small, snotty children cowered as he went past. It was yet another reminder of who – and what – he was. An emotional cripple, who inspired nothing but hatred and terror in his younger students, and a horrifying respect mingled with disdain in his older ones. He walked to the teacher’s table as one would walk to their doom.

“Potter,” he said loudly, and his insides turned to liquid as the scruffy-haired young man turned to look at him. Harry’s eyes were bloodshot and the bags under them were dark purple. Harry said nothing, simply inclined his head and moved as if to turn back towards the table.

Snape was intensely aware that the riotous chatter that usually filled the hall had dimmed, and many eyes were watching his and Harry’s strange tableau. Granger narrowed her eyes for a moment, and then – almost imperceptibly – moved her eyes from Snape to Harry as if to say well go on then.

“Potter, there is something I wish to say to you,” Snape said, his voice sounding thick in his own mouth.

“What is it?” Harry asked, but his tone was flat and without curiosity. He didn’t even move to look at Snape.

“Please, turn to me,” Snape said. He could feel his stomach now, and it wasn’t liquid, it was acid. Churning and burning away his insides, in expectation of the humiliation ahead. “Look at me. Please.”

The silence in the hall was almost deafening, as Harry turned fully round and looked up at Snape.

Snape, rather shakily, got down on his knees and bowed his head. He didn’t particularly care to see Harry’s expression at this point. He spoke loud enough for his voice to carry throughout the hall. There would be enough gossip about this as it was, without introducing a tawdry element of speculation as well.

“Harry I wish, in the presence of witnesses, to humbly beg for your forgiveness.”

“I don’t-” Harry began, his voice sounding panicky. Snape didn’t dare to look up, but he heard a swift “shhhh,” and a grunt from Harry, which suggested that Miss Granger had applied a hard elbow to Harry’s ribs.

“I have greatly wronged you, and I wish to atone for my behaviour. I submit to you.” Snape’s breath came hard and he found it increasingly difficult to speak, but he knew that if he stopped now all would be lost – and Harry would fail to understand what he meant by all of this. “I submit to you,” he repeated, “not to the famous Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world. Not as one entranced by power. Not even as one seeking forgiveness from his equal, from his better. But-” Snape paused, his breath coming out almost in a sob. “As a lonely, heartsick man, who has lost his friend and bitterly regrets the fact. Harry, I beg you-”

And with that, Snape – possibly for the first time in his long, and danger-fraught life – lost his nerve. He lurched to his feet, and stumbled wildly from the hall, not daring to look back. By the time he’d reached his rooms and reinforced his wards – no one, no one was going to get through them this evening – his face was wet with tears he couldn’t even remember crying. But even that shaming fact wasn’t enough to prevent him from slumping on his chair and adding a few more to the total. He was lost and he knew it. And this time there would be no rescue.

***

“Harry, close your mouth,” Hermione said sharply, tugging on Harry’s sleeve. Harry looked at her with his little-boy-lost expression and she felt a curious combination of deep love and intense irritation tug at her insides.

“I-” Harry frowned. “What was that?”

Hermione resisted the temptation to roll her eyes.

“I mean, I know it was an apology,” Harry said, looking sheepish. “But-“ He sighed. “Help me out here, ‘Mione.”

Hermione smiled. “It was lot more than just a simple apology, Harry. He submitted to you! In public!” She rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a thick history book, flicking through the well-worn pages with an intense stare. She put it back down and grinned. “Not quite as formulaic and structured as some of the old ceremonies, of course, but rather more poetic for it, I thought.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” Harry sounded frustrated.

“Well obviously it means that he’s truly sorry,” Hermione explained. “But it’s more than that. It’s very rare for a wizard to submit to another in front of so many witnesses. Sometimes a student would submit to his master, to show respect, or to atone for a terrible mistake.”

“So he was just saying sorry,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “Well, yes. But it’s also more than that. The student submitting would be offering up total control to his master. He’d have to trust completely that the master wouldn’t abuse his trust. It’s a magical bond. If the master ordered the student to kill himself after the ceremony had taken place…” Hermione shuddered and broke off.

“So Snape offered himself to me,” Harry said flatly. “He wants to be controlled by me.”

Hermione shook her head violently. “Don’t you see, Harry? You’re being an idiot. He wants to show you how much he trusts you.”

Harry looked at her like she’d totally lost him, and Hermione tried not to scream. “You had an argument and refused to be his “dark lord”, right? And told him in a roundabout way how you felt about him?” she said, trying not to use her you’re such a moron voice.

Harry squirmed. “Sort of.”

“And so he offers to put himself in your hands – not those of Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, but those of his friend Harry. As a way of showing that he knows you’d never try and control him, even if you could. He trusts you, Harry, the real you. Enough to apologise like this in front of the whole school.” Hermione wrinkled her forehead. “I can’t think of a single example where a teacher has initiated this ceremony with a former pupil. Can’t you see what an amazing compliment that is?” Hermione shook her head. “And from Professor Snape, of all people. Can’t you see how hard that was for him?”

Harry flushed and looked confused. “I- I have to talk to him.”

Hermione sighed happily. “Of course you do. We’ll have to go to the library and do some more research first though.” She frowned, as she read on from the book. “There aren’t enough details here about the acceptance ritual.

“Acceptance ritual?” Harry said, sounding a little nervous.

“Of course!” Hermione shot Harry a look. “You are planning on accepting Professor Snape’s apology, aren’t you?”

“Ye-es,” Harry said, sounding torn.

Hermione slipped her arm through the crook of Harry’s elbow and pulled him up. “Well let’s go and find out some more details so you can decide. Come on.”

***  
When Snape woke the next morning, it was with a feeling of some dread that he got up and dressed in his usual black robes. He had slept poorly, waking frequently throughout the night, his face wet with tears from nightmares in which Harry coldly rejected him in a number of inventive and unpleasant ways. It was, Snape thought despairingly, as he struggled to make himself leave his rooms and go down to breakfast, all too ridiculous. He was a grown man, and should not be frightened of eating a simple meal in public. But, as he strode out of his rooms, his head raised and a sneer plastered on his face, he was aware that inside he felt all too like himself at 14. And 14 – lonely, friendless, ugly and unhappy – had not been his finest year. Not that the subsequent years had been any better, but with years had come a sense of resignation and dignity. A dignity which he had all but lost the night before, in his mad scheme to convince Harry that he was worthy of his friendship, if nothing else.

More than ever before, Snape was aware of the gossip and mutterings of the students around him. And these were his students, his Slytherins. Of course, since the conclusion of the war, his relationship with his own students had been strained. They had known him as one thing – a death eater and loyal follower of Voldemort – and he’d been revealed as nothing of the sort. Many of the students’ parents had gone to jail for their role in the war, while he still walked free. He supposed it was no wonder that he had lost the trust of his own House. He sighed. Once he had sorted out this dreadful business with Harry, he would turn his attentions to his own. His students were hurting, and he hadn’t been there for them. He must, and he would, show them that his way was the right way. It was time for Slytherin House to rebuild its reputation, before it was too late. There were already mutterings from some of the parents that the House system should be abolished.

Engrossed in thought, Snape found himself entering the Great Hall all too soon. He strode to his usual seat without looking to either side and sat down, turning a general glare on the hapless person who happened to be sitting opposite him. It was Harry. Snape paled.

“Um,” Harry said, going red and looking nervous. “Can I talk to you? This afternoon, after class. You can come to my rooms. If that’s OK.”

Snape wet his lips. “That would be… Yes. Yes, I shall be there.”

Harry smiled faintly. “OK. See you later.”

Harry rose and left, Miss Granger shooting after him and taking his arm. He looked, Snape thought anxiously, rather unsteady on his feet. Snape looked down at the food in front of him and realised he felt ravenous. He hadn’t felt hungry for longer than he could remember. He dug in with relish. Harry wanted to speak to him. It would all be OK.

* * *

By the time classes were over, Snape had lost his buoyant mood and had sunk into a deep gloom. His students had been truculent and unpleasant, making no attempt to conceal their glee about his situation with Harry. He had taken over two hundred points in one day, even deducting several from Slytherin students, who had looked outraged beyond belief, but his temper had not felt eased. He had realised, sometime during the morning, that talking with Harry did not mean that things were well. Harry could simply wish to refuse his offer, or to tell him he never wished to see him again.

Snape realised, to his horror, that he felt incredibly nervous. He was not used to the sensation, and it displeased him. It was unpleasant and uncomfortable. He realised that, even if Harry did still want to be his friend, that would still be a kind of disappointment. He wanted Harry, with a fervour that unnerved him, but had no idea how to reveal this fact to Harry without personal embarrassment or loss of face.

The bell rang and Snape’s class filed out. Snape tidied up his papers slowly, feeling a kind of sick dread sweep through him. He was going to be rejected. It was going to hurt.

Snape knocked on the door to Harry’s quarters with some trepidation. He rarely ventured over to the Gryffindor section of the castle, and he felt out of his comfort zone. When Harry opened the door, his face serious, Snape did not feel at his best.

“Potter,” he said stiffly.

“Professor,” Harry said, “Come in.” He looked nervous.

Snape followed him in to a cosy looking living room, with squashy sofas and a warm fire. He was interested to see that the colour scheme was fairly restrained. He’d expected a virulent red and gold mess, so the creams and dark reds were a pleasant surprise. Perhaps Potter had developed a sense of taste, Snape thought with some amusement, as he sat down. He realised he already felt a little more relaxed.

“Drink?” Harry said. “There’s tea.”

Snape had been on the point of ordering something extremely alcohol. “Tea would be fine, Potter,” he said.

Harry disappeared for a moment, and came back with two mugs, one of which he passed wordlessly to Snape. He curled up on the sofa opposite to Snape, but kept his eyes low, gazing into the cup of tea.

Snape blew on his tea uncomfortably, unsure whether he was supposed to speak first and, if so, what exactly he was supposed to say.

“Would-” he started.

“So-” Harry said simultaneously, then flushed. “You first.”

Snape inclined his head. “Please. You were speaking.”

“Right,” Harry said, and took a sip of tea. “Um.” He looked down, and Snape’s heart thudded uncomfortably. “About what you said.” He shook his head, and he winced. “About what I said.” He stopped, and seemed unable to go on.

“Will you accept my apology?” Snape said finally. “I meant it sincerely.”

Harry looked up at him, and Snape tried not to look away. It was very difficult to meet Harry’s eyes. “What exactly did you mean sincerely?” he said doubtfully. “That you were sorry, and you trusted my judgment? Or that you wanted to pass control of your life to me? You could have meant either.” His face twisted. “And you know what I think of that.”

“Harry,” Snape said. The first name sounded odd on his tongue. It was the first time he’d said it out loud. “You’re my friend. At least, I hope you’re still my friend. I trust you. I know you would never do anything that wasn’t in my best interests.”

“Like Dumbledore?” Harry said, with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Snape opened his mouth, and then closed it. Was he asking Harry to be like Dumbledore? He missed Dumbledore so much. He was one of the only people that he’d been able to call friend. But then Dumbledore had let him think that he’d kept Harry alive all these years only for him to be sacrificed to Voldemort. And he’d forced him, Snape, to kill him. His friendship had a high price – perhaps too high a price. “No,” he said finally. “Not like that. I don’t believe you’d ever order me to do anything, or ask me to carry out a task without explaining why. That’s why I offered you my submission.” Snape felt himself flush. “You don’t have to accept. But I wished to do you the honour.”

Harry’s expression cleared, and he smiled slightly. “I’d like to. Shall we do the ritual now? Hermione explained it a little, but I’m a bit hazy on the details.”

Snape’s insides flipped, and he simultaneously relaxed and tensed. His friendship with Harry seemed assured – but what of the other matter that Harry had mentioned? That of the partnership with someone he loved? Had he been completely deluded to think that such a thing could apply to himself?

“How does it work?” Harry asked.

“I say the spell, and you touch me on the forehead with your wand.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“OK, go ahead,” Harry said, sounding a little nervous.

Snape did so. As Harry gently touched his forehead, he felt a strange tingling flood through him. A kind of joy overcame him. Harry had trusted him enough to do it. Now he just had to trust Harry.

“Um,” Harry said, putting down his wand and picking up his cup of tea again. “Did it work?”

Snape looked supercilious. “Of course it worked, Potter.”

The colour rose in Harry’s face. “I liked it when you called me Harry,” he mumbled. Then he looked uncomfortable. “You don’t have to. If you don’t want to. How does this spell work in any case?”

“You have to make a direct order, using your wand,” Snape said firmly. “Don’t fuss, Harry. It’s not something you can do by mistake.”

Harry smiled. “Great.” Then he looked uncomfortable. He put down the cup of tea. “About what I said before. I meant it, but… I don’t even know if you’re… Look, you should probably just forget it. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he mumbled.

Snape froze. He wanted to speak, but it seemed impossible. He’d never been very good at speaking on personal matters, and this seemed to cut to the very heart of him. But if he didn’t speak… “Harry,” he said urgently. “I have a request.”

Harry looked startled. “Yes?”

“I would be most grateful if you could order me to speak my mind on this topic,” Snape said stiffly. “Or I will never be able to tell you my opinion on this matter.”

Harry looked very uncomfortable. “No,” he said. “You promised you’d never make me order you about. I’m not so scary to talk to, am I?” He looked very depressed.

Snape took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

Harry looked shocked.

“I find speaking to you at this moment more than difficult,” Snape said, looking down at his hands. “I have things I wish to say, but I am finding it frankly impossible.”

Harry looked upset. “Please. You can ask me things if you want. But I won’t order you. I said I won’t, so I won’t.”

Snape was silent. He was trying not to panic. The situation was running away from him. He tried not to hyperventilate. Merlin, he could keep up a façade while Voldemort was murdering people right in front of him, why couldn’t he keep his calm in front of Harry Potter of all people?

Harry took another sip of tea and looked wretched. “Do you, um. Do you think you could…” Harry pulled a face. “Um. Would you like to go for a drink with me some time?” he said at super speed. “As a… a… as a date. And I’m still pretty uncomfortable about that spell, by the way. How does it work? How long does it last?”

Snape wet his lips. “It only lasts for 24 hours, Harry. It’s a symbolic ritual, rather than a long term situation.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Harry’s question hung between them. Snape was trying to force himself to respond through the cacophony of doubt in his mind. No doubt once he went for dates with Harry it would all go wrong. Harry would see that he was mistaken in him, and then they would never be friends, let alone anything else. Snape wasn’t sure if he could bear that.

“I…” Snape tried again. “I am not very good at this sort of thing,” he said very stiffly. It was not very to the point, but it was a good start, surely?

Harry wilted. “Fine. No problem. Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked,” he mumbled.

Horrified, Snape realised he’d said the wrong thing already. He should have remembered how literal Harry’s mind could be. He would have to speak to put this right. “I am not going to repeat this,” he said, his voice going into teacher mode without his permission. “So do me the courtesy of listening.”

Harry looked surprised, and sat upright, his expression tense.

Snape focused on the spot on the floor and chastised himself. He could do this. He could speak candidly to another human being on a personal matter. By the four founders, why was this so difficult?

“You would do better to resist the urge to leap to conclusions after my slightest utterance,” Snape began with a grimace. “I spoke the truth, but it was not a flat out refusal of your earlier invitation. I…” He swallowed hard. “I am not good at this, and there are many reasons why the outing you describe would be a bad idea. Our relative ages, the shortness of time that has elapsed between your position as my student and now, your role as my work colleague, my utter ineptitude at handling my own emotions, let alone those of another’s.” Snape took a deep breath, and continued before shame at revealing such things took him over and made him falter. “I also remain unconvinced that you have thought through the sheer scandal of the juxtaposition of hero and death eater in the public eye, combined with the fact that we are both men, Potter, and…”

“I had noticed that fact,” Harry interrupted, rather sharply. “And it’s Harry, not Potter.”

Snape raised his head and glared at Harry. He’d thought he was doing rather well so far, managing to slip in a few uncomfortable truths about himself with barely a flinch. It seemed that if he could manage to keep a certain level of anger then he could speak more freely, even if he did risk offending Harry. “Please do me the courtesy of listening without interruption,” he said sternly. You may be vastly experienced at dating a member of your own sex for I all I know, Harry, but I, on the other hand have a distinct and total lack of experience in this area.”

Harry looked faintly dumfounded.

“Not only that,” Snape continued rather desperately, “But I have not dated for a considerable number of years.” He could feel himself beginning to blush – of all the ridiculous, immature things – and wondered where exactly he was heading with this. He rarely lost the thread of his thoughts, but now he felt more than flustered.

Harry was rather red-faced. “But, um, you’d like to? Er, with me?” he asked, looking both hopeful and rather scared.

Snape found the common manly courage to roll his eyes and look disdainful in the face of extreme cuteness. There was something ridiculously appealing about Harry’s expression at that moment. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh hysterically or to weep at the idea that Harry could be nervous that he (he! Severus Snape!) would reject him, but he was quite firm in his mind that either reaction would be quite out of character.

“I would have to be an idiot or a fool to reply in the negative to your invitation, Harry,” he said stiffly, “and since I am neither, I accept.”

Harry’s face relaxed into a beaming smile. “Brilliant.” He took another sip of his tea, then made a face. “It’s gone cold. Can I get you another?”

Snape snorted. “I’d rather have a Firewhiskey.”

Harry laughed and looked embarrassed. “OK. I just thought… Well, we didn’t do so well before when we got drunk… I thought tea might be better.” He shrugged. “That went OK though, right?”

Snape allowed his lips to quirk up into a slight smile. “It went as well as could be expected.”

* * *  
After another cup of tea and a soothing measure of Firewhiskey, Snape was sitting on Harry’s sofa, feeling an odd mixture of mellow and uptight. While the discussion had been far easier than he’d expected, and he’d been able to speak on personal matters with a freedom that had surprised him, this only served to clear the way for a whole new raft of difficulties ahead.

It was, therefore, an unwelcome and unexpected surprise when Harry revealed a whole new issue – and one that unsettled him to the very core.

“Um, Snape,” Harry said gingerly.

Snape rolled his eyes. “You may call me Severus if you wish.”

Harry smiled. “Really? Thanks. Um, I think something unexpected is happening with that spell.”

Snape’s stomach twisted. “Could you be a little more explicit?”

“”Well… Um. Think of something really stupid. Concentrate on it.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“Just do it.”

Snape thought.  
Harry laughed. “Lucius Malfoy doing cartwheels wearing a dress? That really is stupid. Please tell me that’s not from life.”

“Sadly yes,” Snape said, and then froze. “WHAT?”

Harry went red. “I can kind of read your mind a bit,” he mumbled.

Snape hoped this was all a hideous nightmare.

“I’m afraid not,” Harry replied, looking upset, and then went even redder when he evidently realised he’d answered Snape’s thoughts.

“Can you stop it?” Snape asked desperately, “how far can you go? No, please don’t try to find out. There are some things I would prefer you not to know for your own sake, never mind my mine.”

Harry frowned. “I think I could see anything I wanted if I tried. It’s… odd. I’m trying not to push, but it’s really hard to keep out.”

Snape thought, with some horror, of all the things he didn’t want Harry to know about. All the atrocities he’d witnessed, all the murder and torture and… The more he tried to keep Harry out, and not to think of anything, the more he knew that Harry was seeing. It seemed as if all his basic Occlumency barriers had been gently dissolved, which was ridiculous. Nothing could touch his mental blocks. Nothing except, quite possibly, a trust spell… _Oh Merlin_.

Snape suddenly found that Harry was sitting next to him on the sofa, shaking him gently, looking distressed.

“Calm down,” Harry said, “Please. Look at me.”

Snape tried to take deep, slow breaths and focus on Harry’s face, which was swimming in and out of focus in front of him. He supposed that this was what he deserved. He’d offered Harry his trust, and now he had to bare his soul to Harry and hope he won Harry’s trust in return.

“I do trust you,” Harry said, taking Snape’s hands in his own. “You know I do.”

How can anyone trust me after the things I’ve done, Snape thought despairingly, and then shut his eyes, trying to keep his rising temper in check. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that he’d left himself so unforgivably vulnerable.

“I do trust you,” Harry said stubbornly. “And it would be nice if you could trust me too. I’m not going to tell anyone anything that you don’t want me to. Anyway, this thing will only last for 24 hours right? So I’m just going to leave you alone for that long. We’ll go out and talk when the spell’s worn off.”

Snape tried not to panic, and failed miserably.

Harry turned back, his face pale. “That hurt,” he said, sounding surprised. “Do you often feel that bad?”

Snape said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Harry sat back down beside him, curling his legs up. “Well if you want me to go, you just have to say.”

“This is not… easy,” Snape said flatly. “But if you will not judge me, I would prefer it if you stayed. I am too reticent with you on personal matters. Perhaps this will make things easier in the future.”

Harry looked sympathetic, and then excited. “Why don’t you try Legilimency on me? Maybe it will work both ways. That would be only fair.”

Snape frowned. “Are you sure you wish me to probe your mind? It is an uncomfortable process, and one that has failed to cement our friendship in the past”

Harry peered at him. “That was different. You want to now, so I want you to. Go on.”

Snape did so. To his surprise, it worked. He was pitched headlong into Harry’s mind, in possibly the clearest session of Legilimency he’d ever experienced. Everything was bright and sharp, and he whizzed through a series of memories, only really noticing what they were when he’d passed several by. They weren’t memories: they were daydreams. Snape was shocked for a moment, and then intrigued. Legilimency was a special skill, and one he had some considerable talent in, but he’d never been able to see anything but memories before. These were clear, but the pictures were skewed and insubstantial. It was evident that Harry was worried about something in these thoughts. Worried to the point of obsession. And then, after a few more shifting thoughts, Snape realised what Harry’s thoughts were about: they were about _him_. Harry was rehearsing in his mind, over and over in varying ways and varying methods, how to reveal his feelings to him.

Snape began to feel increasingly warm at being so privileged to view these thoughts. Harry was making no effort to shield his mind, and Snape began to find himself less embarrassed by his own vulnerability, and more interested in how the strange mind connection worked. Could, for example, Harry read his mind while his thoughts were being read in return?

Harry’s thoughts shifted, as if in response to Snape’s own. Snape watched, with some mortification, as Harry relived their argument in the pub and Apparated home unsteadily, crying himself to sleep. Snape tried to relax and thought, with some reluctance, of his own reaction to the argument – the revelation that Harry liked him, the way that had affected him, and his own painful tears. Snape found that the almost unbearable invasion of his privacy was somehow tolerable when he could see – and almost feel – Harry’s response to his revelations.

Then he saw something that made his mouth go dry.

Harry was thinking, so vividly that Snape felt himself flush brick red, of himself and Snape in an… an… an interesting situation. It had all the clarity of a long-held fantasy – the colours and location sharp, the actions… practised. Snape was both mortified and amused to see how he appeared through Harry’s eyes. His skin pale and clear, rather than sallow; his hair long, wild and shiny, rather than slightly greasy; and his figure slim and lightly muscled, rather than scrawny. His face looked almost right, except the features were softened with passion, as he… Snape forgot how to breathe as he watched Harry’s vision of the two of them entwined, dream-Snape pushing Harry hard up against a wall, his robes carelessly unbuttoned at the neck, their mouths pressed hard together in a kiss that made Snape shiver with desire.

Dream-Snape’s hands undid Harry’s belt with easy familiarity and – Snape’s heart thudded – slid a hand into Harry’s trousers, his arm working up and down as dream-Harry moaned and writhed against him. The vision shifted slightly, and Snape was aware of a kind of dual-layer to it – memory melding into dream. If he concentrated he could see brief glimpses of what he suspected was the real Harry, his limbs slipping in silk sheets, as he fisted his cock in the act of self-pleasure, wanking as he thought of Snape.

Snape was overwhelmed by mixed emotions. He wanted to touch Harry, to touch himself, to _be_ touched, so much his entire body sung with it. He was already hard and throbbing under his robe, and knowing that just thinking that meant that Harry would know did little to quell his rising passion. But – and he tried not to scream in his own head – his own total lack of experience in this area was mortifying beyond belief. He was used to being in iron control of every area of his life. It was new and horrendous to feel so out of control, so vulnerable to mockery and hurt. And to simultaneously know that, as he thought all this without even really meaning to, Harry _knew_ that he thought this, _knew_ that he was a virg…

Snape pulled out of Harry’s mind in confusion, only to look up to see Harry’s face, his expression so warm and sympathetic that he just wanted to _die_.

“I, um, don’t mind, you know,” Harry said, blushing a bit. “That you’re, you know, a…”

Snape thought acidly _if you dare say the word I’ll hex you into next week._

Harry stopped hastily. “Sorry. Sorry.” He looked embarrassed. “I didn’t exactly plan to let you see that. It just sort of… popped up. I, er. Right. I was saying sorry. Sorry.”  
Snape tried to pull himself together. “Well this is certainly all very enlightening,” he said dryly, “although on balance I prefer my painful confessions to be made while under the influence of a far higher alcohol to blood ratio, if at all.”

Harry looked nervous. “Um, can I kiss you?”

“No,” Snape said hastily, while his brain said _yes_ very loudly. He glared at Harry.

Harry shifted slightly closer on the sofa, and Snape tried not to panic. He wanted to kiss Harry, very much indeed, but what if it – he – wasn’t as good as Harry expected? It had been _years_ since he’d…

Snape was jolted from his mortifying thoughts by the feel of a hand cupping the side of his face.

Harry grinned at him in a lopsided way. “It’ll be great,” he said. “And if it’s not great, we’ll just have to practise for a very long time until it is.”

Snape didn’t even have time to protest before Harry leant forward, pressing his lips gently against his own.

For a few awful moments, Snape felt unable to respond, totally frozen with panic. But Harry was warm and soft against him, and after a moment he forced himself to kiss back, feeling ridiculously unsure of himself. For a while it was awkward, Snape finding himself unsure of how to move against Harry’s mouth, and how often. They fumbled against each other like two 13 year olds experiencing their first kiss. But after a while Snape relaxed a little. Harry was making noises of enjoyment that he surely wouldn’t be making if he wasn’t actually having fun, and his kiss was gentle and unthreatening.

Then Harry slipped his tongue inside Snape’s mouth and _licked_ his tongue gently, and something inside Snape snapped. He launched himself on Harry, who fell back with a noise of surprise and arousal mixed, kissing back with a fervour that made itself known right the way down to Snape’s crotch.

Snape wondered what he’d done to deserve such pleasure and discomfort mixed; his body pressed hard against Harry’s, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might explode. He wanted to take things further but had no idea where to begin, or how such an act might be received.

Harry twisted under him and Snape found, to his bemusement and nervous anxiety, that they were now lying side by side on the sofa, Harry’s leg hooked over his own to pull him in closer, their bodies fitting snugly together. Snape felt himself shudder as one of Harry’s hands stroked its way down his side, and rested lightly on his hip.

They lay there kissing until Snape’s lips felt red and sore, his body taut with arousal. His stomach twisted with nerves as Harry’s fingers trailed over his hip-bone, up across his stomach, and began to ghost their way downwards.

He both wanted, and didn’t want Harry to continue. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to relax, but he felt the most vulnerable he’d ever felt in his entire life.

“I want to,” Harry mumbled against his mouth, his voice low and filled with lust. “Do you want me to?”

_Yes, Merlin yes_, Snape thought, and was then overwhelmed by doubt.

Harry was warm and comfortable against him. “Say it,” he whispered, and drew back slightly to look Snape in the eye.

Snape felt his face flare with red. He wet his lips. “Yes,” he said, in a low, trembling voice that sounded nothing like his own. “Please.”

Harry’s lips parted and he flushed. Snape felt Harry tremble as the young man fumbled with the buttons of his robe, and he drew in a sharp breath as Harry’s hand brushed his aching cock through the cloth.

Harry’s lips were warm and fierce against Snape’s as he tugged down his underthings, and fastened his hand around his penis.

Snape found himself uttering noises of the like that had never come out of his mouth before. He thought briefly, as he moaned and writhed and gasped under Harry’s ministrations, that he should be embarrassed, but the feelings that sparked through his body were so unusual and so overwhelming that he couldn’t fasten on that thought for long.

It became, after a few more minutes, a kind of sweet torture. Harry evidently had some skill in this area, and knew, perhaps by the begging of Snape’s mind in his, that Snape was teetering on the edge of release. His hand slowed, and paused, and stopped, and started, bringing Snape to the brink over and over, without allowing him satisfaction. Snape became dimly aware that he was sweating and trembling, as he panted out pleas to his torturer.

Harry drew back, and watched Snape with a red-faced, awed expression, and Snape couldn’t quite bring himself to protest, or even mind, even thought the idea of scrutiny at such a moment should have been abhorrent to him. All that seemed to matter was the warm, firm grip on his private parts and the aching need that flooded his entire being.

“_Please_, Harry,” he panted, his mouth open, his body shaking.

Harry licked his lips and Snape felt as if Harry’s mouth was hotwired to his groin, and he bucked and squirmed into Harry’s hand.

Harry flushed and smiled softly, making no move to speed up. But, Snape realised, he also made no move to slow down. Snape felt his whole body go red with a mixture of extreme arousal and embarrassment as his legs began to twitch, his stomach juddering, his breath coming in short, heavy gasps.

And then he came with a wave of red-hot pleasure, uttering a hoarse cry and gripping Harry’s hair so tightly that he was sure it must have hurt, screwing his eyes shut as he shook and spurted come against the young man beside him.

When he gathered the courage to open his eyes, Harry had already cleaned up with a quickly muttered spell, and was doing up Snape’s buttons.

Harry met his eyes and smiled. “OK?”

Snape nodded, feeling rather stupid. “I haven’t…” It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to touch Harry, but…

Harry grinned, and ran a hand through his hair. “Another time. Don’t worry. That was fun.”

Snape found, to his chagrin, that he was blushing.

* * *

After dinner in the Great Hall, during which Snape thought a variety of rude and sarcastic things about the other teachers and students, and Harry tried not to laugh, they went out.

Then they came home. Snape frowned as they entered the building and Harry started to head towards the Gryffindor tower.

Harry turned and looked back. “Well are you coming or not?”

Snape tried not to feel nervous. The Firewhiskey he’d imbibed was definitely helping him relax. “If you desire my company,” he said, inclining his head.

Harry grinned. “Of course I do, you daft sod. Come on.”

When they entered Harry’s quarters, Harry poured them both a large drink, and took a deep swig. “I know I don’t always say the most sensible things when I’m drunk,” Harry said, “and here comes another thing I’m going to regret.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Well out with it, Harry.”

“Um,” Harry said, and went brick red. “I’d like you to, um, you know, with me, tonight. If that’s OK. I know you’re, um. But I won’t let you feel stupid.”

Snape thought about that for a moment, not even quite sure what he was thinking, the blood was sinking so fast to fuel a growing tightness in his underthings.

“Oh!” Harry said, and sounded surprised. “You’d rather I?”

Snape looked at him, and tried not to grit his teeth. “Harry, I’m not even sure what I’m thinking at the moment. Perhaps you, with your unprecedented insight into my thoughts, could clarify your last statement?”

Harry looked embarrassed. “Er.”

“Just spit it out, for goodness sake. Where’s your Gryffindor spirit?” Snape said wryly.

“Um. You were thinking that you’d rather, er. Um. That you’d prefer it if I.” Harry screwed up his face and looked as if he were expecting to be hexed, “That you wanted me to fuck you, rather than the other way round.”

Snape decided not to pass judgement on Harry’s torturous sentence construction. He was too busy fixating on Harry’s words. _Would_ he prefer that? He certainly didn’t feel ready to take control of Harry in that way, although the idea was certainly intriguing. He tried to picture himself being penetrated, and winced.

“It won’t hurt if you’re relaxed,” Harry said, looking nervous. “It’ll be nice.”

Snape made up his mind. He’d spent too much of his time alone to dither now, when a good thing was being offered to him, despite his misgivings. “Yes,” he said finally. “I would like that.”

* * *

Showered, and dressed in Harry’s dressing gown, Snape took a deep breath and entered Harry’s bedroom. He took in a sharp breath at the sight of Harry. The young man was sprawled across the bed in only his underpants, his skin a glorious warm colour and his physique thin but toned. There was a noticeable bulge in his boxers.

Harry sat up and squinted at Snape, his glasses lying on the bedside table next to a packet of condoms and a heavy-looking glass jar. He held out a hand and smiled.

Snape wet his lips nervously and stepped forward, allowing himself to be pulled down onto the bed beside Harry.

Harry smiled up at him. “You’re fantastic,” he said, and pulled Snape towards him into a hard, hot kiss.

Snape felt his doubts swirl away in a mixture of hormones and desire. Harry’s fingers were coiled in his hair, and when Harry rolled on top of him they tightened, the sharp ache in his scalp a welcome contrast to the sweetness of his kiss.

Harry reached down to undo the cord at Snape’s waist. A piece of trapped fabric remained between them, but the robe fell open at the side. Harry trailed the fingers of one hand along Snape’s bare skin and Snape shivered with pleasure, running his fingers along Harry’s bare back.

Harry sat back and tugged the robe fully open, exposing Snape’s nudity to his unfocused gaze. He smiled as he trailed his fingers over Snape’s skin, and Snape moaned faintly under Harry’s touch.

Fingers turned to kisses, and Snape lay back in a kind of bliss as Harry licked erotic trails over his skin, kissing him in unexpectedly seductive areas: the inside of his elbow, his sides, the hollow at the base of his throat.

Then Harry took his penis in his mouth and Snape nearly came just from that. He struggled to keep his calm but it was so wonderful warm and wet, the feeling of Harry’s tongue caressing the tip of his cock, the slippery movement of Harry’s mouth moving up and down as he gently sucked and licked. He moaned loudly and bucked his hips, trying to force Harry to speed up. He was so close, and the feeling so intense, that his mental faculties seemed to have entirely melted into mush.

Harry slowed, and pushed Snape over, who turned with a protest, his aching cock trapped between his body and the bed, throbbing almost unbearably.

But Harry was kissing his backside now, and pushing him into the mattress, the mere feel of the sheet rubbing against his swollen erection both erotic and arousing.

And then Harry did something that Snape did not, in his wildest dreams, expect. He took a long lick, starting at the hollow of Snape’s back and down. But he did not stop where Snape expected. He continued, his soft tongue moving down the crease between Snape’s buttocks, and taking a swirling lick of Snape’s anus.

Snape would have protested if it didn’t feel quite so exquisite.

Who would have thought that such a private area would hold quite so many nerve endings? Harry was licking and kissing down there as if it were a delicious treat, and the warm, wet strokes made Snape feel weak with desire and arousal. He tensed momentarily when Harry’s tongue pressed against him, pushing inside him, but his legs spread further apart almost of their own accord to allow Harry access, as his wicked tongue pushed further in, making Snape gasp and shudder.

It felt almost like a betrayal when Harry withdrew, but when he raised his head he saw Harry fumbling with the jar on his bedside table, and soon felt a slippery pressure as Harry pressed a finger inside him.

At first it was uncomfortable. Not exactly painful, but not exactly enjoyable either. Snape wondered what an erect penis would feel like if a single digit felt that huge. But Harry tugged him up onto all fours, and wrapped a lubricated hand around his throbbing penis, continuing to push a finger gently into him.

And then, Harry crooked his finger and stroked, and something marvellous exploded inside Snape. He stroked again, and Snape, gasping and stammering, had to ask Harry to stop unless he wanted this to end all too soon.

Harry withdrew the finger and Snape relaxed, with only a token clench when Harry introduced two fingers inside him, rubbing and stroking at his insides until he felt like jelly and his legs could barely hold him up.

He heard a rustling as Harry reached over for a condom, and slipped it on, and looked around to see Harry stroking lube over his own cock, his expression slack and aroused.

Snape tensed and braced himself.

Harry stroked his back, and reached round again to stroke Snape’s cock.

Snape was soon lost in a haze of arousal, only partly aware of Harry’s hardness pressing gently but firmly against him. Then Harry pushed. For a moment it hurt, as Snape’s insides clenched around the intruding object, and Harry paused, stroking Snape’s cock until arousal countered pain. Then he moved again, and Snape found that it was merely uncomfortable.

And then Harry’s cock pressed against the bundle of nerves inside him and Snape felt a wave of pleasure run through him. He tensed as Harry moved, but this only made the sensation more intimate, more intense. He moaned and pushed back against Harry, who laughed breathily and moved again, settling into a smooth rhythm.

Snape could feel Harry’s body, slick with sweat, pressing against him, Harry’s hard cock moving inside him, Harry’s hand moving against Snape’s own penis. He was surrounded by Harry – his feelings, his emotions, his senses all overtaken with desire and need and love.

Harry’s hand sped up and Snape felt all the blood in his body rush down to his groin. He came with a gasp, jerking and pushing against Harry’s hand and Harry’s cock inside him, the motion dragging out his orgasm until the sensation was almost unbearable.

Harry was moving hard and fast inside him and suddenly he slowed, and slammed into Snape with a gasp, sending him sprawling onto the bed.

They lay tangled for a moment, gasping. Then Harry shifted slightly and, instead of leaping up and running away as Snape half expected, pulled Snape into a loose hug.

“Don’t be so stupid,” he muttered, with a yawn. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.”

And as Snape slipped into a half-sleep he reflected that Harry was right. He was home, with the man he loved. There was nowhere else he’d rather be.

And Harry, who’d heard his thoughts as clear as his own, smiled warmly against his Snape and tried not to burst with sheer happiness.


End file.
